Café Corto

By Ewan Lawrie

Short stories, flash-fiction and travel writing set in Spain and other Hispanophone locations. From the creepy to the squint-eyed view of the mundane: a clutch of cuentas to satisfy any taste.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ewan Lawrie
• Release date: Jun 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370626915

Ewan Lawrie

I used to do something secret in the Military. Now I write, so I'm still making things up.There are bits and pieces of mine in various anthologies. I won a prize once for a poem a while ago. Gibbous House was published by Unbound on January 12 2017. A first poetry collection 'Last Night I Met John Adcock'; was published in October 2018. Gibbous House's sequel No Good Deed was published by Unbound in January 2021:- https://unbound.com/books/no-good-deed/Moffat III - At The Back Of The North Wind available September 2022.I have some short stories, a little imagination and enough talent to put under your little fingernail.Not everyone's cup of teaI think I'll have that on my headstone.

Book preview

Cafe Corto

Ewan Lawrie

© 2017 by Ewan Alexander Lawrie All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Café Corto

The Woman on the Beach

With a Blue Jug in Her Hand

Atahualpa's Lunch

Hot Enough for June

Spoiled

Finches

Puebla de Sanabria

There Are Sandwiches in the Afternoon

Thursday Afternoon at the Venta

King of the Road

A Miracle in Villablanco

Stray Cat Strut

The Last Pair of Levi’s

Guiri

Packet

RED

Friday Night at Hong Bin Lo

The Radio

Despedida de Soltero

The View from There

Winter

Tesoro

One Last Night in the Rock Hotel

Crowlines

The Golden Days Return

Darla

Small Timers

The Most Beautiful Machines in the World

Poste Restante

Afterword

Café Corto

Jane's cup rattled in the saucer. She set it down on the bottle­scarred table. It was her third café corto. Too strong, really. Still, she wasn't up to explaining how she wanted it. In Salamanca it was 'Manchado'. That meant stained. Hot milk – stained with very little coffee. Made sense, if you thought about it. Here at the other end of the country it just meant, well, stained, as in marked, or even dirty.

She'd given up on it after the waiter's blank look. So Jane was on her 3rd murderously strong espresso and she was still waiting. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, then peered again into her handbag to see if another wet wipe had appeared in the packet. Keeping the empty avoided having to ask in the shop. Point at the packet and say ‘Hay aqui?' Eventually you'd get what you need. Part of living abroad, not being understood, wasn't it?

From time to time the bar's owner stood in the doorway staring out to sea. The café's tables were empty. Terrace and bar. The rollers disturbed the turquoise surface of the Med, but there was not a boat in sight. 35° outside and not a tourist for miles. The man looked to Jane like a gaoler with no­ one in his charge. A fat tortoiseshell cat was curled up under the table nearest the doorway to the bar's interior. There was a faint smell of urine at the foot of the canvas marking the Mermaid's territory on the Paseo Maritimo.

Jane picked up the Nokia. Flicked through the menus, as if she wouldn't have heard the tone in the silent café. Of course there was nothing. She opened the last message.

'Of course I'll be there. You know I will. Don't forget what you said you'd bring. X'

'X' One measly 'X'. At least it was an odd number. Such things were unlucky in even numbers, everyone knew that. He loves me, he loves me not. Clever girls checked the petals before picking daisies, Jane never had. Jane flicked to the option to call message sender. The number rang out. A Spanish voice said out of coverage or something, same as it had all morning. Of course, he wasn't late, not yet. Two hours was nothing, almost on time in fact. MSN, Facebook, Twitter, an appointment was a moveable feast. Why he said a time if he couldn't make it was a mystery. Still, he'd been the one fussing about the time. To tell the truth he'd been more punctual in person, after they'd finally met. That time in Puerto Banus, well, he'd said it was the Guardia Civil's fault and maybe it had been.

Waiting. Sometimes it was delicious, the anticipation. Jane replayed moments. The first time, the first shock, as she looked down to see the dark, shining skin between her white thighs. It had been exhilarating, despite the cheap Hostal in Estepona. He still hadn't come to the 2nd Line apartment she'd rented in Cabopino. Wouldn't come, he said. They were looking for him, people from home, best to keep moving. Some of the Hotels had been better.

The phone beeped. It wasn't him. It was Jose Maria.

'Hope you are enjoying your break. Faculty meeting the week before start of term. Friday 10 a.m. OK? XX.'

He'd been the one to interview her for the post. Comparative Literature, visiting Professor. Two years in Salamanca. Why not? She hadn't foreseen the boring nights alone in her studio flat in the university town. Going on­line had been a life­-line. The dating site had been just a bit of fun. She'd never been going to meet anyone. So what did it matter if she ticked the ethnicity box Afro­-Caribbean?

It had been funny, rather than a bit of fun. Mis­-spelled e­mails detailing strange inheritances and business opportunities. Several pictures of Denzel Washington purporting to be lonely guys looking for love. She'd almost answered the person whose profile showed Idi Amin. Then she got the one.

The e­mail with no spelling mistakes, no once­in­a­lifetime offers. Just a conversational introduction, the kind someone might give if they met you in person. Oh, and there was the picture.

He'd said it was old, over ten years. It was a scan of a black­-and-­white studio shot. A university graduation thing, judging by the gown. It showed a handsome man of about 22.

When the video­calls started she could scarcely contain herself. He was beautiful, mid­thirties. As handsome as a film-­star and a real person. Jane kept the light dim at her end at first. Until she actually told him she was fifty­five. The next mail begged her to meet him. She couldn't get away, not until the end of term. Summer Vac. She'd taken the lease in Fuengirola on impulse. It had a week to go. The summer had evaporated in the heat of the sun and the bedclothes.

Jane looked at her watch. Checked through the bag one more time. Passport, Birth Certificate, Divorce papers. He'd come. He wanted to marry her, Jane. If that was what it took to keep him, she'd do it.

Hopefully today.

The Woman on the Beach

I met her on the beach. The most beautiful woman on the sand, standing sleek and wet. Her feet were still being lapped by the Mediterranean waves. It didn't look like she was with anyone. So I spoke to her.

'Not coming ashore?'

'I'm not Spanish,' she said.

Her English was accented, with the careful fluency of someone who had worked hard to have it.

'Neither am I, but are you ,then? Coming ashore?'

She laughed, 'For a while.'

I tried to be discreet and noted she wore a black one-­piece. A striking thing in contrast to the day­-glo, multicoloured bikinis all over the beach.

'Do you like it?'

She ran her hands down her sides as she spoke. So I swallowed and said I did.

'Let's get your towel and things, I'll buy you a drink!'

I waved in the direction of a nearby chiringuito.

'No towel, I have all I need. Let's go!'

So I followed behind her confident stride and admired the view.

We ordered cocktails and I suggested lunch.

'Sardinas?' She asked as she ran her tongue over her upper lip.

We ordered twelve and I ate two. She devoured them. When I asked her if she liked them she told me that she preferred raw herring and then laughed.

'Silke, my name is Silke', she said when I asked her.

'German?'

'No, you'll never guess.'

And I didn't

Later, we walked to my hotel. I wondered why the hot pavements didn't burn her bare feet.

In the morning, I took her one-­piece to a laundrette below some nearby holiday apartments. The Spanish matron used to do me a service wash once a week. She said nothing as she put the swimming costume in with my faded shorts and singlets, just smiled and gave a slow wink.

'Una hora y media, vale?' she croaked and I promised I'd be back in an hour-­and­-a-­half, for sure.

My hotel room looked like Hurricane Katrina had passed through it. The dressing table mirror was smashed. Silke was sobbing on the bed, which it least looked no worse than when I'd left.

'Where is it?' She screamed.

'What?'

She rubbed her hands down her sides as she had done yesterday. It seemed much less provocative now.

'Your bathing suit? It's safe. I'll have it back in an hour or so. I thought maybe...'

Her clawed hand missed my face by a feather­'s breadth and I realised that maybe we wouldn't. My hands were locked around